


The Watermelon Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploding watermelon, what will THRUSH come up with next?  That's what Napoleon and Illya have to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watermelon Affair

_When one has tasted watermelon, he knows what the angels eat._

_Mark Twain_

 

 

 

Perfect.

 

The day was perfect, not too hot and not too windy.  There were just enough clouds to keep the sun from being too overpowering when you were standing out on the pitcher’s mound.  Yet the clouds weren’t so thick that they kept you from dipping your toes into the pond either.

 

Ronald Ferrerro helped himself to another hot dog and hummed to himself while slathering the bun with mustard.  It stood out, brilliant yellow against the fluorescent green of the relish and the brown of the plump frank.  

 

Maywell Imes shook his head.  “Is that really necessary?  You’re getting fat!”  He leaned over and, laughing, slapped Ferrerro’s bare stomach. 

 

“What do you care?”

 

“What do I care?  I’m your sparring partner, among other things.  I care because there’s nothing worse than an old, fat UNCLE agent… except a young, fat UNCLE agent.”

 

Any argument Ferrerro might have offered was stymied by his stuffing the dog into his mouth, sighing as his teeth went through it with a pop.

 

“These dogs are the best,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

 

Anne Hildebrandt came running up, her face flushed with sun and excitement.  “You two, come on, we’re having a watermelon eating contest.  Ronnie, you’re the reigning king, you have to participate.”

 

“Sure wished you’d mentioned that before I started this.”  Ferrerro set the hotdog down onto his plate with regret.  “Tis a far, far better thing I do for watermelon kind.  I will be there in five minutes – can you hold them until then?”

 

“I’ll try, but you know how Mr. Lanuza is.”  And she was off at a run, her flame red bikini top struggling to keep up with her.

 

“Have I told you how much I appreciate this new trend in swimwear?”  Imes offered his partner a hand up from the picnic table and together they walked from the covered pavilion to where the rest of their small UNCLE office had gathered around a picnic table.  The top of it was heaped with watermelons, fat and looking ready to burst.

 

“Right back at you, partner.”    Ferrerro laughed and stretched out his arms to the sky.  “Could this day get any better?  This is why working in a small field office is so much better than one of those oppressive God-awful regional offices – or God help me New York.  I would be willing to bet you a week’s salary those Big Wigs in New York don’t have time for company picnics and get-togethers.  I remember spending a few hours with a couple of them and it was the most miserable experience in my life.  Neither of them had any passion nor feeling for their jobs; they just showed up and did what it took.”

 

“And why is that bad?”

 

Ferrerro didn’t have time to answer his partner.  The first explosion sent a piece of ice chest flying, knocking Imes to the ground, his head sliced open.  Ferrerro started to react, but the next three explosions sent most of the office staff and their families flying.

 

Ferrerro caught a chunk of something in his chest and felt a rib pop on contact.  It was suddenly as if all the air was being sucked from him and he collapsed on the soft green grass, gasping for breath.  Two more explosions and all grew still, except for the breeze that blew and plucked playfully at the devastation that had once been a lovely summer day.

 

 

Act One - 

 

Everything felt gritty and he’d had a shower just two hours earlier.  Illya Kuryakin sighed and ran a hand through the sweat-wet hair at the base of his neck.   It was nearly impossible to catch his breath in this heat.  Yet that didn’t stop him from sprinting from the alcove where he’d taken refuge and racing for the next bit of cover.

 

Gunfire nipped at his heels as he ran hell bent and then dove head first into the minimal cover the cans provided.  He came up and braced his Walther with both hands, firing in almost the same moment.  He ducked back down and let the clip fall free.  Swallowing and grimacing at the dryness that made his throat ache, he shoved the new clip into place and looked around.  The Walther was hot and heavy in his hand and he braced it upon the edge of a garbage can as he studied his surroundings.

 

The alley was ominously quiet now.  Had he taken down his target or was it merely biding its time, waiting for him to make a mistake?  His shirt was clinging to him like a second skin and Illya yearned to peel it off and toss it aside.  Still, it afforded him some protection from the concrete and bricks of the alley.

 

There was a blur of movement and he aimed, checking himself at the last second as a cat rushed from one point of refuge to another, further away from him.  Something caught Illya’s peripheral vision and he dove for the next set of garbage cans, then rolled, stood and fired.

 

“Time!”  A disembodied voice announced and Illya let his arms drop, slipping the safety into place on his weapon automatically as he returned it to its holster.

 

“You are thirty seconds off your norm and nearly a full ninety seconds off your own record.”  The Voice stepped into view, a tightly buttoned up and no-nonsense range tester.  She consulted her clipboard and frowned.  “I’d suggest you try again, but this was even worse than your last go.”

 

“Drop the temperature in here about forty degrees and I’ll show you how it’s supposed to be played.”  The sweat ran down Illya’s brow in a persistent trickle, making his vision blur as he blinked it away.

 

“You know I can’t.  We have to test you in all conditions.”  She tore off a sheet and handed it to him.  “If I were you, I’d get some sleep before trying this again.”

 

“Easier said than done.”  Illya watched her walk from the test range and sighed.  Napoleon would have had some glib comment that would have made her take off her dark rimmed glasses and let down her hair.  Illya bet her hair was perfumed and soft.  His, on the other hand… he raked a handful off his forehead and shook the moisture from his hand.  It was definitely time to hit the showers.

 

He was just standing there, eyes closed in pure bliss, letting the cool water cascade over him when he heard a throat being cleared.  He didn’t bother opening his eyes.  He knew it was Napoleon without needing to look.

  
“Yes, Napoleon?”  He wondered if his voice sounded as tired as he felt.

 

“Are you planning on leaving the shower any time soon? Waverly would like us in his office.”

 

Illya sighed and nodded, reaching for the faucet at the same time.

 

“When did you sleep last?”

 

“March - is that a problem?”  He cut the water and wiped his face with his hand.

 

“Considering it’s currently July, you might want to think about taking some time off and heading north.”  Napoleon offered him a towel and Illya draped it over his head and began to dry his hair.    Napoleon headed out of the showers and into the locker room.  He opened up Illya’s locker and pulled out the extra suit he knew his partner kept there.

 

“Why north?”  

 

“It’s cooler up there.”   Napoleon hooked the suit on the locker door and rummaged around, finding both socks and underwear.  Those he set on the bench and he went back for Illya’s extra shaving kit.

 

“Do we have any missions coming up in Juneau?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of, but if I hear of anything, I’ll let you know…” Napoleon trailed off as he realized Illya was studying him.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“Do you plan on dressing me as well or may I be depended upon to carry out that task?”

  

“Sorry, the Old Man is in a bit of a hurry.”

 

“So I deduced, but I do have this.”

 

“I’ll just wait for you --”

 

“In Waverly’s office.”  Illya began to dress. “I will be right along, Napoleon, I promise.”

 

He was as good as his word.  Ten minutes later, he walked into his superior’s office and took his usual position at the circular table.  In the center of the table were several melons.

 

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, excellent, now we can begin.”  Waverly finished packing his pipe and searched his pockets for a match.  “What do you gentlemen make of those?”

 

“Fruit salad and a picnic staple,” Napoleon answered quickly.  “And my mother makes a mean watermelon pickle.”

 

“Look again, gentlemen,” Waverly urged.  “Mr. Kuryakin?  Nothing?”

 

“I see a melon, nothing more.”

 

Waverly touched a button and the lights lowered.  “Watch the screen, please.”

 

A film started, a flurry of numbers and letters racing by.  A watermelon sat in an empty room and a disembodied voice said.  “Temperature at seventy degrees and climbing.  Eighty… ninety.” Suddenly there was an explosion and the watermelon was splattered all over the room and camera.  “Combustion took place at ninety one degrees, humidity at fifty percent.”

 

“It… exploded?”  Illya stood so he could reach the watermelon and pull it closer for an inspection.  “But how?”  He dug his glasses out and carefully studied the fruit, rolling it over and over in his hands.  He even went so far as to smell it.

 

“That’s what we are trying to figure out, Mr. Kuryakin.”  Waverly finally found a match and puffed away.  “We have nearly an entire field office in the hospital because of those blasted things.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I want you and Mr. Kuryakin to check it out, Mr. Solo.  I believe you are familiar with the spot, a Groton Pond.”  Waverly pronounced it with a long ‘o’ and Napoleon winced.

 

“Groton, with a short o, sir, and indeed I am.  We used to go camping there every summer.  Mom and Dad used to rent a cabin on the west end of the pond.”

 

“Mr. Solo, I would like this handled quickly and quietly.  There is no sense terrifying a watermelon-loving public if this is isolated to just a small region.”

 

“You are thinking this is part of a test crop.”

 

“More of a desperate wish I should think, Mr. Solo.”  He glanced over at the blond who was still rolling the melon in his hands.  “Do you have something to add, Mr. Kuryakin?”

 

“Sir?”

 

“You appear lost in thought.”

 

“More of a puzzlement, sir.  They have some of the infected melons in the lab?”

 

“And their findings will be forwarded to you.  You leave at once.”

 

                                                            ****

 

Why he always had to pick babysitting duty was beyond him.  Tony Rem drained his cup of coffee, crumpled it up, and tossed it towards an overflowing trash can.  It hit the rim and bounced away.

 

“Are you going to pick that up?” Saelaw Krape snapped.

 

“Nope.”

 

“I’m not your maid.”

 

“Nope.”  Rem returned his attention to the various monitors and sighed.  “Never said you were, Krap.”

 

“It’s _Craw-pay_ and you know it, idiot.”

 

“Your mouth is moving, but all I hear is blah, blah, blah…” There was nothing Rem enjoyed more than tormenting his partner of four years.  “This is so boring… why do we always pull the night watch?”

 

“Why did you let those UNCLE agents have that entire load of watermelons?  You knew that was going to bring heaven and hell down on us.”

 

“So I wanted some excitement, what’s wrong with that?”

 

“You had enough of that when you blew our chief’s car up.”

 

“I thought it was Waverly’s.  They looked just alike.  If I’d gotten Waverly, I’d have been a frigging hero.”

 

“But you didn’t, you killed a THRUSH chief instead.”

 

“You know, your mouth keeps moving, but all I hear is _blah, blah, blah_.”

 

“Thanks for dragging me down with you.”  Saelaw stooped to pick up the paper cup and put it in the waste basket.

 

“You are so welcome.  No one deserved it more.”  They fell into silence.

 

“You coming over to dinner Saturday?”

 

“Red or white?”

 

“Beer; the wife’s got a hankering for sauerkraut.”

 

“She’s pregnant again?”

 

“What the hell else is there to do up here?”  Saelaw pointed to a dial, the needle was waggling back and forth.  “What does that mean?”

 

“Ah, that means we need to call home.  Something big must be happening – our boss is looking for us.”

 

 

 

                                                

 

 

 

Act Two

 

Napoleon glanced over at the passenger side of the car and smiled slightly.  It had taken considerable pull to get a car with air conditioning, but he’d succeeded.  Granted, the Lincoln wasn’t the most practical vehicle for this, but it was worth the effort.  Illya had practically fallen asleep the minute the cold air hit him.  And he’d not stirred in four hours.

 

Napoleon’s motives had been twofold.  Not only was it comfortable, but he was going to have a well rested partner by the time they arrived at Groton.  The car was also large enough to handle the large amount of necessities that staying in a cabin required.

 

As the countryside slipped by, Napoleon found himself going down Memory Lane again and again.  He remembered the camping, the fishing, the swimming; that week always seemed like Paradise.  No chores to bother with, no cares, just days of endless time.

 

He hit the outskirts of Groton and slowed.  This was wrong.  He should have hit the turn off by now.  He pulled into the parking lot of a small laundromat and consulted his map.  He flicked his eyes over to Illya, but the Russian didn’t move, nor did his breathing change cadence.

 

Sighing, Napoleon climbed from the car and walked into the building.  A young woman at the far end stood as he entered.   

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Yes, I’m looking for the turn off for Groton Pond.”  Napoleon spotted a soda machine and dug some change from his pocket.

 

“You missed it.  Go out of here and hang a right.  It’s about a quarter mile, again on your right.  Just follow the road and it’ll lead you to the pond.”  She studied his clothes.  For the occasion, Napoleon had changed into slacks and a polo shirt.  Natty, but casual enough to not attract attention or so he thought.  This woman couldn’t take her eyes off him.  Napoleon felt like a long cool drink to a thirsty man.  “You’re not from around here.”

 

“Used to be.  I grew up in Chelsea.”  He chose root beer and retrieved the bottle.  He fed in more coins and picked orange this time.

 

“Know it well.  I have relatives over there and in half the other towns in Vermont.  Your plates say New York, so what are you doing all the way out here?”

 

“I thought I’d show my partner some of the sights.”  Napoleon had barely gotten the sentence out when a sixth sense told him Illya was behind him.  “Speaking of such, orange or root beer?”

 

Illya pointed to the root beer and smiled slightly as he took the ice cold bottle. “Thanks.  Are we having trouble?””

 

 “It’s been longer than I remembered and I got turned around.  This kind young lady —“

 

“Julie, my name is Julie.”  She passed over a bottle opener to Illya and smiled at him, taking in the lean figure clad in the tight tan jeans and the equally tight black tee shirt.

 

“Julie was giving me directions,” Napoleon finished, noticing the woman was practically drooling by the time she’d managed to tear her eyes away from Illya and back to Napoleon.   

 

Illya opened his bottle and offered the opener to him.  “How much further is it to this Eden of yours?”

 

“Not far, we’ll be there in time for dinner if we leave now.”  Napoleon passed the opener back to the woman and nodded.  “Thank you, Julie. I appreciate your directions and your time.”

 

She waved to them from the door and Illya shook his head slowly as they walked to the car.  “What is this power you have over women, Napoleon?”

 

“Me?  She couldn’t take her eyes off you.  I should offer you a cigarette after the eye job she was giving you.”

 

“Probably was afraid I’d run off with her only bottle opener.  Do you want me to drive?”

 

“Would you mind?  My back could use the break.”

 

“Since I spent the last four hours sleeping, I’d be ungracious to do otherwise.  You could have woken me up, you know.”  He caught the keys that Napoleon tossed and they climbed back into the car.  After a few moments to adjust the seat and the mirrors, Illya pulled back out onto Route 302.  “Napoleon, why do we even have a field office out here?  This is beyond remote.”

 

“There’s one office in St. Albans and another in Manchester; they handle either end of the state.  The Montpelier office handles everything central.”

 

“But why were they out here?”

 

“Well, it was their annual summer picnic and the closest pond is either here or Fairlee.  As to why they chose here, I suppose they had their own reasons.  As I recall, Groton has fewer bugs this time of year.”  Napoleon pointed to a sign post.  “Okay, this is it, turn right.”

 

Napoleon sighed and then rolled down his window.  He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.  “Now that’s something I haven’t smelled in a long time.”

 

“Car exhaust?”  The car that had preceded them obviously was badly in need of a tune up.

 

“Illya, do you have a single romantic bone in your body?”

 

“Had them all removed before leaving the Soviet Union.”  Illya managed to say it without cracking so much as a smile.

 

“I was waxing poetic about the smell of the pine trees.” Napoleon rolled up the window and made a glum face.  “You could at least pretend to be enjoying this.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Enjoying this?”

 

“Pretending to.”  Napoleon rolled his eyes, missing Illya’s mischievous grin.  Then he sat up as they drew closer to a store.  In front, under the shade of a large pine tree, was a huge cardboard box full of watermelons with the price clearly marked upon it.  “Slow down.”

 

Illya braked gently as they passed the store.  Two men sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch leaned forward as if studying the car and its occupants.

  

“Do you see what I see?”  Napoleon didn’t look around at them, but rather kept looking straight ahead.

 

“The watermelons, the men, or the store?”  Illya watched as the two men came out of the chairs and stood on the porch stairs, watching as they drove past.

 

“The name of the store, Illya - Tordo’s General Store.  That’s Italian.”

 

“A large number of Italians immigrated here.  Lots of Scots as well.”  Illya flicked a look in his rearview.  “They’ve gone back to their chairs.”

 

“Illya, think, what does _tordo_ mean?”  Napoleon was digging through the glove compartment for his communicator.

 

“I don’t know.  My Italian isn’t that strong.”

 

“You should know. It’s singlehandedly responsible for just about every scar on your body and mine.”

 

“THRUSH?” Illya whispered the word.  “So blatant?”

 

“So egotistical to think no one would notice or to think anyone who did know wouldn’t care.”  Napoleon tugged the antenna up and twisted the communicator on.  “Open Channel D please.”

 

“Channel D is open.”

 

“Ah, Meredith, I need for you to do me a favor.”

 

“Of course, Napoleon.”  The woman’s voice was like a soft caress and Illya rolled his eyes.

 

“I want you to find out everything you can on a general store in the central Vermont area.  It’s name is Tordo’s General Store.”

 

“Tordo?   That’s an odd name.”

 

“Meredith, you said a mouthful.  Solo out.”  He closed the communicator and twisted in his seat.  “I was half expecting to see someone following us.”

 

“Napoleon, we are driving in something akin to a tank wearing a tutu.  It will take very little to find us should they so desire.”

 

“This is why we are going to unload and then stash this someplace.  I made arrangements for a second car up here.  They might be able to track us, but I’m not going to make it any easier than I have to.  Section Eight also modified this with a couple of surprises.  They may well find it, but it won’t be the car they are looking for.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Hose this down and the paint washes off.”

 

“Damn clever those Section Eights, but they aren’t the only ones with a trick or two up their sleeves.   Look under your seat.”

 

Napoleon reached beneath it and after a moment pulled out a large manila envelope.  Inside were two Vermont plates.  He grinned at his partner.  “Insurance?”

 

“Every time I come up here, someone blows up my car.  I prefer to think of this as a necessary evil.”

 

                                                            ****

 

Tony Rem exchanged a look with his partner, Saelaw Krape, as they sat on their chairs and watched the Lincoln Continental drive by.  He stood and walked to the stairs.   “Was that who I thought it was?”

 

“It sort of looked like Solo, but why would New York send them up here?”  Krape stood as the car drove by.  “I’m going to call in the license plate.”

 

“Would that mean Kuryakin is driving?”  Rem sounded hopeful.  “We’d be on the fast track if we were able to nail them to the wall.”

 

“He might be; those two are usually together, except when they aren’t.”  Krape returned to his chair and dug into a jacket pocket for his two way radio.  “One way or the other, we’ll know soon enough.”

 

 

 

 

Act Three

 

Napoleon Solo sipped his coffee and stared out into the dusk.  They’d only just gotten one car swapped when fat drops began peppering the dusty road.  Within five minutes, the rain was pelting down, making driving almost impossible.  They finally found the cabin they’d rented, having driven past it three times earlier.

 

The rain abated slightly as they unloaded, but they were still both drenched by the time they’d gotten everything unloaded.

 

Napoleon had started the coffee while Illya rummaged through first one box and then another.  Finally he found what he was looking for and tossed a small box to Napoleon.

 

“What’s this?”  Napoleon turned the box of hair color over and over in his hand, afraid of the answer.

 

“Additional insurance.  It’s not only the car that needs to change color.  You first.”

 

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair.  It felt unnaturally soft and silky, the alkaline of the rinse having taken its toll upon it.  He looked at his hand, half expecting it to be stained.  It wasn’t, but that didn’t keep him from checking again.  His hair was now a soft chestnut color as opposed its normal near black.

 

He heard the shower shut off and returned his attention to the black silhouette of the trees surrounding the cabin.  They had alarmed the windows and the doors; no one would be coming in to surprise them without forewarning them.  Napoleon still felt ill at ease and wondered if it was just nerves or if someone did have a telescope trained upon them.

 

He set his empty cup aside and settled down upon one of the many chairs on the screen enclosed porch.  When he was a kid, he’d slept out here, listening to the trees whisper, the night noises, and letting them lull him to sleep.  That wasn’t going to happen now.

 

“Anything?”  Illya came walking out, a towel around his neck.  He’d pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, but he was barefoot.  His hair had gone from pale blond to a more strawberry color.  It worked on him, just as Napoleon’s worked with his skin tone.   Section Eight knew what they were doing.

 

“Nope, just Ma Nature at her finest.”  Napoleon had changed into a flannel shirt and jeans, but he wore heavy socks to keep his feet from the cool air.  He realized Illya was carrying the coffee pot and retrieved his cup, holding it out for a refill.

 

“So you used to come here as a young man?”  Illya sank down and stretched his legs out.

 

“Yes, and I can prove it.”  It took Napoleon a moment but at last he directed Illya’s attention to one of the logs that made up the railing ofthe porch.  Roughly carved into the wood was – N A P O L E O.  “Mom caught me before I could finish.”  Napoleon explained, tracing over the letters with his forefinger.  “I was supposed to fill it in and stain it to match, but never quite got around to it that trip.  The next time we came up, Mom had forgotten all about it.”

 

“A boy and his knife, it’s a beautiful thing.”

 

“Mom had other words for it.  Was there anything from home?”

 

“Nothing, but I do have some bad news.  Did you happen to check out your bed room?”

 

“Only to move the bed back to its original place and unpack, why?”

 

“The reason the bed was in the middle of the floor is because the roof leaks.  Your bed is soaked…”

 

Napoleon caught himself just before letting go with a curse.  He prided himself on rarely swearing.  “I should have realized when I saw the ceiling in the corner.  I thought the discoloration was just age… or something.”

 

“We will go with ‘something’ for the win.”  Illya finished his coffee.  “Thankfully, there are plenty of other places.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“The couch looked fine…”

 

“Looks can be deceiving.”

 

“And this feels fairly survivable.”

 

“As long as you don’t mind your partner being served up as a target.”

 

Illya grinned… “I already moved your stuff into my room.”

 

“So certain that I’d be that anxious to jump into the sack with you?”

 

“I tried the couch… and I don’t cherish the thought of a bullet-riddled partner should you have picked out here…”  Illya shrugged his shoulders and let his head fall back, listening to the rain.  “Who’s cooking tonight?  I feel like something large and substantial.”

 

“You are.”  Napoleon poked him with a stiff forefinger.  “You agreed to it before we left New York.”

 

“Cereal and toast coming up.”  At Napoleon’s look, he groaned.  “All right, something more than cereal.”

 

“You at least look a bit more conscious than when I found you in the shower.  How did you do?”

 

“I can’t concentrate in the heat and the humidity was through the roof.  I’m much better in a fight in the sub arctic than the sub tropics.”

 

A stiff breeze blew through the porch and Napoleon shuddered.  “Then you must be right at home.”

 

Illya sighed and put his feet up on a small table.  “Getting there.”

 

“I’m going to go start a fire.  When you are ready to get serious about dinner come find me.”

 

                                                            ****

 

Tony Rem bent over the speaker, swearing to himself.  “I don’t believe this.  What sort of morons never uses each other’s names?  Not once, not a single solitary…?”

 

Saelaw Krape sighed with frustration.  Like his partner, he couldn’t believe these two.  They were going to share a bed and they never once addressed the other by any name at all.  “What did home have to say?”

 

“They couldn’t verify.”

 

“Well, at least we have the listening device in place.  If they slip, we’ll catch them.”

 

                                                            ****

 

Napoleon was carefully stacking kindling onto the grate when he heard the porch door swing shut.  Even though it was probably Illya, he still went for his weapon, just in case.

 

“How big a fire are you planning on building, my friend?”

 

“Where I come from, we call this a white man’s fire.”

 

“Where I come from, we call it a serious waste of resources, shift aside.”  Illya knocked Napoleon with a hip and sent Napoleon sprawling.  

 

He rolled to his feet gracefully and glared at his partner.  “Was that necessary?”

 

“Probably not.”  Illya was quickly restacking the kindling after having removed half of it.  “This will keep you from catching the roof on fire.”

 

“In this storm, not likely.”  Napoleon resisted the urge to give Illya a push and knock him from his squat.  “Are you going to start dinner or continue to criticize my fire-building skills?”

 

“I’m going.”  Illya stood, dusting off his hand, a sly smile on his lips.  “Tell me, do you want your steak tough as shoe leather or raw?”

 

“I’d prefer edible…”

 

“I’m still working on that concept… shoe leather it is.”  Illya padded quietly away, his bare feet silent on the floor’s wood planking, and Napoleon squatted before the fire to feed more sticks in.    He waited for them to catch and added a slim log.  Experience had taught him to build up to the bigger pieces.

 

Finally, the fire was crackling merrily away and Napoleon became aware of soft music coming from the kitchen.  _Illya must have found a radio,_ he thought, stretching out on the couch.  Between the steady beat of the rain on the tin roof, the crackling heat of the fire, and the soft music, Napoleon suddenly felt awash with domesticity.  This was nice.  Shame THRUSH had to practically be on their front door step.

 

He woke from his doze at the sound of scraping.  Illya was pushing a stack of books aside to make room for Napoleon’s plate on the battered coffee table.

 

“It looks edible.”  He sat up and stretched.

 

“I tried.  Did you have a good nap?”

 

“I did.”  He took a glass of wine and set it beside his plate.  Illya pulled up a straight back chair that had seen better days when Napoleon had stayed here as a boy.  He couldn’t believe it was still serviceable.  In fact, it looked exactly the same...  “Don’t use that chair…”

 

“Why?”  Illya stopped in mid sit.

 

“It doesn’t look safe to me.”  Napoleon glanced around and found a sheet of paper.  _Take it outside,_ he scrawled across it. 

 

Illya straightened and lifted the chair to flip it around.  It looked innocent, but something was nagging at Napoleon’s memory.  Illya carried it to the kitchen door and set it outside in the rain.

 

“What was that all about?”  Illya asked once he resumed his position.

 

“Call it a gut feeling.  That chair was barely serviceable when I was here as a boy.  Everything else in the cabin has changed – why not that chair?  Allow me the benefit of the doubt.”

 

“I’ll give it a once over tomorrow morning.  Now, eat before it gets cold.  That happens and I can’t guarantee edibility.”

                                                            *****

 

“No, no, no….”  Saelaw pounded the console and Tony came racing into the room.  

 

“What?  What?”

 

“They put the chair outside.”  Saelaw’s voice was thick with disgust.  He got to his feet and paced the small office, raging.  “How would he know it was the same chair?  How would he remember that?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine, friend.  I guess tomorrow we do our own leg work.  If we can get them out of the cabin at the same time, we can replant the bug.”

 

“If they aren’t UNCLE, I’ll eat my wife’s cooking.”  

 

“Hell, if they’re UNCLE, I’ll eat anyone’s cooking.”

 

Act Four

 

Napoleon cast his line out into the water.  The mist was still hanging heavy over parts of the pond.  It had been forever since he’d been fishing, but his luck was still holding up.  He’d remembered the little cove where he and his father would always head early in the morning.

 

Napoleon grinned at the thought of his partner, still slack jawed and sleeping, when Napoleon had crawled out of bed at near dawn.  The day was cool and crisp, newly washed by the night’s rain.  Napoleon had hurriedly dressed in a pair of ratty jeans, a well worn tee shirt and a flannel jacket.  He hastily scribbled a note to Illya explaining where he was and that he was bringing home breakfast.  Then he grabbed his tackle box, a couple of towels, and his bait.

 

The boat was right where the leasing agent had promised and Napoleon congratulated himself on remembering to bring along the towels to wipe down the aluminum seats and sit on.  As a kid, he remembered freezing his butt on those metal seats.  He pushed the boat away from the dock with an oar, letting memory after memory cascade back to him.  If it wasn’t for a dozen UNCLE employees being in the hospital, this would be the vacation of a lifetime.

 

Now he sat on the near mirror surface of the pond, the waking birds the only sound drifting to him.  It gave him a chance to study the shore with his binoculars and to just let his brain work on their problem at hand.

 

He could see the park entrance and the lone building that acted as changing rooms, rest room, storage area, snack bar.  It was a long low building.  To its left were several covered gazebos and a little further back, there was one still trimmed with yellow tape.  That would be where he’d head this afternoon.  Illya had drawn the store.

 

His bobbin dipped sharply and he held his breath.  It dipped and he gave the line a sharp yank.  A moment later the trout was flopping around on the bottom of the boat.  Even given Illya’s prodigious appetite, he reckoned he had enough for breakfast.  He tucked the fish away with the rest of his morning catch and turned to start the motor. 

 

A brilliant flash caught his eye and he dropped to the bottom, ignoring the fishy-smelling water and general filth.  The flash disappeared, but came back a second later.  Then it vanished again.   It would seem whatever it was looking for, it wasn’t finding and he intended to keep it that way.

 

Napoleon took a chance, got back up, and hastily climbed over the seat.  That put him close enough to be able to start and direct the outboard motor while still squatting in the relative protection of the boat. 

 

He stayed there until he’d disappeared about a bend in the pond, then he stopped the motor and trained his binoculars upon the shore line.  Nothing seemed odd.  There were a couple of guys putting a boat in the water, a couple of kids playing early morning tag with the water’s edge while a dog raced ahead of them.  It all seemed harmless enough.  That made Napoleon Solo all the more wary.

 

                                                            ****

 

“Anything?”

 

“Naw, just some yahoo fishing.  Solo’s got dark hair, doesn’t he?”

 

“Nearly black as I recall.  Looking down the barrel of his gun, a man tends to remember things like that.”

 

“This guys a redhead or close to it.  And dressed like a slob.”

 

Tony got his glasses up just as the boat slipped around the point.  “Well, whoever it is, he is heading back towards the cabin, maybe it’s not them.”

 

“Are you going to tell Giese that?”

 

“No, and a world of no’s.  If the word on the street is that Solo and Kuryakin are here, who am I to counter that?”

 

“Even if we’re the ones who started that rumor?”

 

“Especially if it was us who started the rumor.”

 

                                                            *****

 

Napoleon walked up to the cabin, whistling softly, letting Illya know it was him coming, but keeping the noise down in case Illya was still asleep.  The man had a prodigious capacity for sleep. 

 

 His partner was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, intently working on something.  Illya was still wearing the tee shirt he’d slept in, but had exchanged his undershorts for a pair of gray jog pants, a testament to how cold the cabin was.  His hair was still wet from a shower and he sat close to the fire, which was crackling merrily in the hearth, taking the chill off the cabin.  Napoleon sighed happily at both the heat rolling from the room and the smell of coffee.

 

He came in through the porch and Illya’s head moved smoothly in his direction.  Napoleon had no doubt that a Walther had been pointed at him until Illya was positive of his identity.  It was still hard to remember neither of them looked exactly normal.

 

“You’re finally awake.”  Napoleon had dumped his gear on the porch and now sat to slip out of his boots.  “I brought breakfast.” Napoleon displayed the dozen trout on a line.

 

“That’s fish.”  Illya made a face.  “Those don’t look like kippers to me.”

 

“Kippers?”

 

“Smoked herring and the only fish worthy of being served for breakfast.”

 

“I think a whole mess of lox eaters would disagree with you, but never mind.  I will make you a believer.”  Napoleon carried the fish to the kitchen and set them in the sink.  Illya was waving his hand before his face as Napoleon returned a moment later

 

“Why do you smell like you’ve rolled in something bad?”

 

“Probably because I did.  I think someone was playing ‘spot the UNCLE agent’ this morning.  Did you find anything?”  He nodded to the straight back chair which now laid in pieces around his partner.

 

“Two somethings actually.”  Illya picked up a sealed jar and shook out a small device barely larger than a grain of rice.  “Exhibit A.”  He set it down and picked up a second slightly larger device.  “And Exhibit B.”  He returned both to the jar and sealed it again.

 

“And those would be?”  

 

“Our version of insects.”

 

“Bugs, you mean?  Ours?”

 

“One of theirs and one of ours.  I’m betting every cabin up here is bugged by both of us.”  Illya sat back and studied his less-than-perfectly put together partner.  “Rumpled works for you.  I like that look.”

 

“You would.”  Napoleon reached out and Illya pulled back, his nose crinkled.  “Sorry, I’ll go get washed up.  So you just grew that mustache overnight, did you?”  Illya was now sporting a shaggy moustache that obscured his top lip.  Napoleon had to hand it to Section Eight.  It looked like the real McCoy and matched Illya’s new hair color perfectly.  He picked up Illya’s cup of coffee and drained it.

 

“You have your love to keep you warm, I have my hair.”  Illya began to reassemble the chair.  He held up a refusing hand when Napoleon offered him back the cup.  “Keep it.  What should I do with the bugs?”

 

Napoleon picked up the jar and resisted shaking it.  Instead he smiled warmly.  “Oh, I think we are going to provide them with some entertainment, partner.  Now if you will excuse me, I am going to grab a shower before breakfast.”

 

                                                            *****

 

Napoleon carefully lifted one last bit of fish from his plate to his mouth, closed his eyes and smiled as he chewed.  This had been even better than he’d remembered.  He glanced at his partner.  Illya had made noise, certainly, but that was just Illya.  When Napoleon had climbed from the shower and dressed, he’d discovered the fish cleaned, filleted, and awaiting his tender ministrations.

 

Illya had also peeled potatoes and grated onions and had started hash browns.  There was a carton of eggs and an uncut loaf of bread out as well.    Illya obviously intended breakfast to be a substantial meal.

 

“As much as it pains me, you were right.”

 

“About?”

 

“The fish is very good.”  Illya was mopping his plate with a last bite of toast.  “There could have been more, but I made do.”

 

“If you’d eaten anything more, you wouldn’t be able to move.  What is your thought for the day?”

 

“I think we need to pick up some supplies.”

 

“At Tordo’s?”

 

“Yes.  You?”

 

“I’m going to drive in and talk with our agents.  See if they know anything.”

 

“Haven’t they been released yet?”

 

“Normally, yes, but Waverly felt it would be safer to keep them all in one place rather than back home.  They are still in the hospital pending our report.”

 

“Then, for their sakes, let’s finish this up and quickly.  I’ll change and we can be off.”

 

“I doubt the store opens much before ten, partner, and that goes for visiting hours as well.”

 

“Then what should we do in the meantime?”

 

Napoleon reached over and lifted the jar to study the two bugs.  “You know which one is which?”

 

“Of course I do.  If you look carefully, you can see the ID number on ours.  It’s the larger of the two and probably has more fidelity.”

 

“Disable ours and let’s give THRUSH something to talk about.”  Napoleon gave his partner a wicked smile and Illya grew pensive.

 

“Like what.”

 

“Trust me.”

 

                                                            *****

 

“They’re doing what?”  Tony Rem stared at his partner in disbelief.

 

“You heard me.”  Saelaw Krape was staring morosely at the wall, trying to mentally wipe away the noises he’d heard through the headphones.

 

“That breaks it then.  Napoleon Solo is a man about town and a lover of women.  I have heard he’s slept with all the available women in Manhattan – that can’t be him.  Not doing… that.”

 

“What about the Russian?”

 

Tony shrugged his shoulders. “He’s a wild card.  No one has been able to figure out exactly where he stands and with whom.”

 

“Then it could be… I mean, you don’t know.”

 

“Are you going to be the one to make that call?  I’m not telling HQ about this.”  Tony stood and walked to a window in the back of the store.  It was nearly time to open.  He could hear their fellow agents moving around, restocking shelves and tidying up.  Tony glanced over at the pile of watermelons, safely stored out of sight.   It had been a mistake to ship them here, but the big bosses never thought that Vermont would get hot enough to trigger the melons.  Tony had proved them wrong and they weren’t very happy with him.  If he could deliver Solo and Kuryakin, it would mean a one-way ticket for them out of this dump. “We need to be sure.”

 

“Damn right we need to be sure.”

 

                                                            ****

 

Napoleon took a sip of his coffee and watched Illya carefully return the listening device to the jar.  Illya had lined the glass with cloth, so the chance of having their regular conversations picked up by it was next to impossible.  Once Illya had secured the top and placed the jar back out on the front step, Napoleon broke into a chuckle.

 

“Partner, I have to say that was the best sex I’ve had with my clothes on in a long time.”

 

“You’ve done that before.”

 

“Maybe I was just an adept student when it came to that class.  It didn’t seem an alien concept to you either.”

 

“I took the same class and, unlike you, I am an adept student.  I have the doctorate to prove it.”

 

“Now you’re just bragging.”  Napoleon carried his empty cup to the sink and set it inside.  “I’m going to head into town now.  Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at the store?  It’s about a mile back.”

 

“The exercise will do me good.”  Illya stood and stretched.  “Have we heard anything from HQ since we’ve been here?”

 

“Now that you mention it, we haven’t.”  Napoleon found his communicator and twisted it on.  “Open Channel D.”  He frowned, shook the instrument and tried again.  “That’s odd.”

 

“Perhaps we are in a pocket of non-reception.  You should try once you hit the main road.”

 

“But I called from the store.”  Napoleon tried again.  “Open Channel D please.”

 

“They may have a suspicion that we are here and are blocking transmissions somehow.  I would wait until the main highway.”

 

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and stuffed the pen into a pocket.  “Ready?”

 

Illya pulled on his sunglasses and gave Napoleon a ghost of a smile.  “Let’s ride.”

 

 

                                                            *****

 

Napoleon had barely hit the main highway when his communicator began to warble.  Napoleon pulled off to the side of the road and tugged it free from his pocket.  “Solo here.”

 

“Oh, thank, God, Napoleon, we were starting to get frantic.”  Heather’s voice was rough with concern and Napoleon smiled in memory.  Perhaps it was time to take her out dancing again.

 

“I’m here, we’re fine.  The cabin is being monitored by THRUSH and Illya thinks there’s some sort of signal dampening going on.  As much as it pains me, I’ll tell him he was right.”

 

“So were you.  Tordo’s – that’s Italian for THRUSH, but you already knew that or you wouldn’t have made the call.  We did some snooping and we think it’s the local satrap.  Why call attention to yourself like that?”

 

“It could be arrogance, it could be ignorance, or it could be the way they play the game up here.  Vermont is light years away from New York in many aspects.  Anything else?”

 

“If you would pass this on to Illya.  The lab reports are back.  The watermelons were treated with forchlorfenuron.”  She sounded the word out slowly.  “I’ll read you their report - Forchloefenuron is a cytokinin, which improves fruit size, fruit set, cluster weight and cold storage in grapes and kiwifruits. Forchlorfenuron acts synergistically with natural auxins to promote plant cell division and lateral growth. This plant growth regulator causes an increase in berry or fruit size, including varieties not tolerant to gibberellic acid.*  And, no, I don’t know what half of those words mean.  According to the lab boys though, the chemical also hardens the seeds, making them impregnable to insects.”

 

“And turning them into tiny missiles.  It was a wonder no one was killed.  I am sure Illya will understand all of this or at least pretend that he does...”  Napoleon glanced over his notes and made sure he could read everything.  “Anything else?”

 

“The lab feels the only place they could have grown these were under artificial conditions.  If you were to grow them in a field, they’d explode before reaching maturity.”

 

“Heather, you are a dream come true.  Remind me of that when I get back to New York.  Solo out.”

 

                                                                                ****

 

Illya Kuryakin walked slowly up and down the aisle of the store, pausing now and again to pick up a can and study it.   He was fairly certain the desk clerk didn’t have a clue who he was or the man would have gone for the shotgun sitting next to the cash register.   Illya spotted it through the front window, but figured around here something like that wouldn’t attract attention.  There were shelves filled with bullets, various types of traps and repellents.  Apparently the region had wildlife.

 

He gathered up a handful of items, including a thick viscous hand lotion called Corn Husker’s Lotion.  It was just odd enough to capture his imagination. And his hands were very dry.

 

“That going to do you?”  The clerk studied the items and began to ring them up.

 

“And one of the watermelons out front.”

 

“Those ain’t for sale.  They’re plastic.”

 

“What?”

 

“Got tired of folks stealing them.  I got a mess in the back, you want to come and pick one out?”

 

Illya hesitated and then shrugged his shouldes.  “It’s not really necessary.”  Then he saw the rifle leveled at his stomach.

 

“Oh, I think it is.”  The clerk’s voice was very soft.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“You may not recognize me, but I can smell UNCLE a mile away.  I have a knife scar the length of my right thigh that agrees with me.”

 

“I never…handle knives.  You can get hurt too easily.”  Illya let the man think he’d scared him into nervousness.

 

“No such luck.”  He hit a small switch and spoke quietly into it.  “Mr. Rem, I have something for you.”  To Illya, he growled. “It’s a good thing you are worth so much to our chief alive,  UNCLE agent, or I’d kill you right where you stand.”

 

“I’m not alone, you realize.  My partner knows I’m here.”

 

“You wound me.  We are banking on his company.”  Rem appeared and the clerk nodded.  “He’s one of the pair you are looking for.”

 

“Are you sure?  He doesn’t look… much like UNCLE. They don’t usually have much in the way of facial hair.”

 

The clerk leaned over and peeled Illya’s moustache off.  The action brought tears to his eyes as the skin protested the removal.  “Better?”

 

“He’s not doing much for me, but we’ll let the big chief decided what to do with them.   Let’s go, UNCLE agent.”

 

 

Act Five

 

 

Napoleon paused in mid stride and cocked his head to one side.  Something was wrong, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrerro, you were saying?”

 

The man shifted in the bed uncomfortably.  His chest was tightly bound, his arms were peppered with bandages and his face looked as if he’d been attacked with a marker pen.  “It was like walking into a mine field.  When it was all over, we were all too stunned to do much more than just lie there and bleed.  Thankfully someone called an ambulance for us.”

 

“Your entire office was hit.”

 

“Yes, except for the two agents who stayed behind on duty.  They are pretty happy now that they did.”

 

“I can imagine.”  Napoleon spared him a smile.  “Any idea as to why your group was attacked?”

 

“No.  We sort of have a gentleman’s agreement up here.  We don’t mess with them and they sort of ignore us.  Then a new chief came in and everything sort of went south after that.” Napoleon brushed a wrinkle from his pants. 

  
“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, this sort of sounds dumb, but they were starting to act like a real satrapy.   They were starting to do stuff… you know, spy stuff.”

 

“Is that why the cabins are bugged?”

 

“It may sound odd, but we get a lot of big names up here. You know, the state is touted as a place to get away from it all.  After we had a couple of scientists vanish from Groton, we started to take measures.  We went through the cabins, found their bugs and added our own.  That was one reason why we decided to come up here this year for our picnic, sort of a show of force.  Guess that didn’t work out so well.  We have two guys who might not be able to use their hands ever again.  One of my chief’s little girls is going to be permanently disfigured.  When you say exploding watermelons, it sounds like fun and games, but not if you’re close to them.  It was like holding a ticking time bomb.”

 

“Our lab boys did some investigating.  The watermelons were enhanced with a chemical while they were growing, but they think that they must have been grown in controlled conditions.”

 

“That seems likely since they exploded when they got hot.   If we’d been under the pavilion roof, they would have stayed cooler and not exploded.  We made such a mess last year though, the boss didn’t want to have to pay for clean up again, so…”

 

“You staged it around a picnic table instead.  It could have been worse.”

 

“Tell that to the little girl who’s been permanently disfigured.  She was holding one when it went off.  I was halfway across the field and you can see what I look like.  Imagine holding one and…”

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Illya Kuryakin felt sweat trickle down his face.  It was very hot in here.  He looked around at the watermelons that had been placed all around him.  It was the ones under his chair and the one directly on his lap that worried him the most.  He looked over at the thermometer and swallowed.    Seventy-nine degrees it read and he sighed. 

 

The THRUSH agents had led him to this building, tied him, quite firmly, and piled the watermelons around him.  Their movements told Illya that they were fearful of the fruit and didn’t want to stay there a second longer than they had to.

 

He strained at the ropes, clothesline actually, but wasn’t able to get them to loosen at all.  The thin rope held more firmly than some of the heavier hemp he’d been tied with.  It cut into his skin and actually seemed to tighten the more he struggled.

 

The door opened and someone entered.  He craned his neck to see and made a face.  He should have known.

 

“I bet you are wishing for another one of those ice cold root beers about now.”  It was the young woman from the laundromat.  “I knew you two were trouble from the moment I saw you.”  Julie Giese walked up to him, her ponytail swinging with each step.  “I’ve made a lifelong habit of reading people and the minute I saw you two I knew you were trouble.  When you found our bug, I knew you were UNCLE.”

 

“You’re the THRUSH chief?”  Illya’s voice carried an edge of disbelief in it.  “But you’re—“

 

“You say a girl, and I’ll end it right now.”  The gun leveled at his temple didn’t waver a fraction of an inch.

 

“So young,” Illya finished.  There was no fear in his eyes.  He’d been in similar situation positions many times before.  He had to believe he’d get out of this one as well.  “Aren’t you afraid of being in here?”

 

“I know the detonation point and we still have a few degrees to go.”  She pulled over a chair to sit across from him.  “So, what shall we talk about?” She snapped her fingers.  “I know, who are you?”

 

“No one.”

 

“Come on, it’ll help to know your name when we bury you.”  She ran her fingers through his hair.  “I liked you better as a blond.”  She yanked his head back so fast, Illya heard his neck crack.  “Who are you?”

 

“No one.”  Illya spoke slowly the way you would speak to a challenged child.  This time it got him a sharp slap across the face.  Illya merely blinked slowly, as if waking from a long sleep.

 

“Do you know what that watermelon in your lap is going to do to your private parts when it goes up?  Does UNCLE employ eunuchs?   There isn’t going to be enough left of your dick to fill a teaspoon.”  She got up and walked around.  “Whoever you were with this morning isn’t going to like that.  He was rather poetic in his description.”

 

“He’s known to be glib at times.”

 

“The dark haired guy who was with you?  Pity he likes boys better than girls… he’s going to need a new playmate.   You’ll be peeing in a plastic bag after this… providing you live at all.  Who are you?”

 

Illya flicked an eye to the thermometer.  _Eighty one._ This had ‘long day’ written all over it.

 

                                                                                *****

 

Napoleon stepped over the threshold and into the kitchen and the hairs on the back of his neck tingled.  Instantly he was on alert, but outwardly he remained calm.

 

“I’m home.  You are not going to believe what I…”  He eased to the side of the kitchen door and waited.

 

A second later, a head poked in and he slammed, double fisted, down against it.  The man went sprawling and Napoleon reached into the pocket of an old fishing jacket to retrieve the small pistol hidden there.  THRUSH always traveled in flocks and the fallen agent’s partner wasn’t far behind.

 

“Tony?  Tony?”  The man burst into the kitchen in a way any UNCLE instructor would have frowned upon.  Or perhaps THRUSH didn’t teach their agents the basics.

 

Napoleon caught the man and slammed him up against the wall, sending the pots and pans hanging there rattling and clanking.  That brought the man groaning on the floor up and Napoleon kicked him.  The agent dropped again.  Napoleon returned to his handful.

 

“Now what do we have crawling around in our cabin?  You don’t look like the sort that would hang around with my partner, so I don’t think he invited you home with him.”

 

“I don’t talk to stupid UNCLE agents.”  The man’s eyes never left his semi-conscious fellow agent.

 

“Excellent, let’s see what you have to say to resourceful ones.”  Napoleon dragged the groggy man up to his feet and shoved him into his partner’s arms.  “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Illya blew a mouthful of air up onto his face, or tried to.    He felt like he was trapped in a sauna and it was only getting worse.  The young woman had tired of slapping him and had stormed off, none the wiser for her efforts.  Illya’s face hurt, but it was nothing compared to some of the beatings he’d received at the hands of other THUSH.    Mostly he just relaxed and went along for the ride.

 

More worrisome was the watermelon he’d failed to dislodge from his lap.  While he knew his pants would provide some protection, he had no desire to have it there when the temperature hit ninety one.    It was heavy and he was tied in such a way that all of his attempts to shift it had so far proved fruitless. 

 

Outside the wind had come up, he could hear branches knocking on the side of the building where he was being held.   He rocked back and forth, trying to get enough momentum to topple over, but the watermelons were piled too close.   First he’d have to knock those out of the way, well, get the one off his lap, then knock the others away, then escape.  Illya reckoned he had a long morning ahead of him.

 

 

Act Six

 

Napoleon cut the outboard motor and let the boat drift to a stop in the secluded grove.  He’d loved fishing this spot as a kid.

 

Adults had hated it because there was all sort of debris in the water, waiting to catch their hooks, but Napoleon had patience and it would often pay off.   The water here was unnaturally deep and cold, just perfect for the trout he enjoyed so much.

 

 The THRUSH agents were trussed up and in the bottom of the boat, a twenty pound anchor threaded through their restraints. 

 

“This is a great place to fish.”  Napoleon cast out his line and glanced over at the two THRUSH agents.  “I’ve caught maybe three or four hundred fish here.   The water in this one spot is almost as deep as it is in the center of the pond.  They dredged most of the pond, but they never have here.  There’s supposedly a dozen fishing boats down there, sunk in this storm or that.  The current of the pond carries everything here and dumps it off.  The scientists have never really been able to figure out why, but this seems to be the garbage pail for the entire pond.  Where better to off load a couple of pains in my… side?”

 

“You wouldn’t dare – you’re UNCLE.  You’re one of the good guys.”

 

Napoleon grinned as his bobbin danced in the water.  “Ah, that’s where you are wrong.  You have mistaken me for someone who plays by the rules.  When it comes to my partner, I never play by the rules.  Which one of you wants to go first?”

 

Both men began to struggle in earnest and the little boat rocked with their efforts.   Napoleon pulled in his line and held the wiggling fish up for them to see.  “Now what does this remind me of?”  He smiled at them.  “Hook, line, and sinker.”   He removed the fish and re-baited his line, casting it back out.  “Tell me where my partner is and you might live.”

 

“Fairy,” the darker of the two snapped and Napoleon chuckled.

 

“Sticks and stones, my friend.  I have been called so much worse in my time – killer of children, murderer of women…”  Napoleon paused and withdrew a long filleting knife from the tackle box.  “I know it’s wrong, but guess what I do with the men before I kill them?  It heralds all the way back to the Greeks and Romans – a way to prove your enemy is dead, for what living man would hold still long enough to let his penis be cut off?  Now, where is my partner?”

 

                                                                                ****

 

The watermelon fell to the floor with a splat and Illya barely managed  to keep from shouting out in victory.  The watermelon on his lap was gone.  Now he just had to figure out a way to keep the other couple dozen from blowing up.

 

The thermometer read eighty seven and the wind had grown oddly calm outside.    He strained his ears to pick up any noise, any sign of people milling about.  Of course he wasn’t gagged, so that told him that visitors would be unlikely.  It didn’t keep him from hoping though.

 

His arms and legs were happily numb now.  Even if he could somehow escape his bonds, getting blood back into his limbs so they actually worked would take time. 

 

 _Eighty nine, just two more degrees,_ Illya thought.  He had expected to go out in a blaze of glory, but not like this.  Perhaps Napoleon would be good enough to lie to his parents upon the return of his body to the Soviet Union.  Something heroic and daring, not ‘I’m sorry Mr. and Mrs. Kuryakin, your son was killed by exploding watermelons’... He didn’t even like watermelon.  Talk about irony.  Talk about just desserts. Talk about…  Illya never finished the thought as he was suddenly doused down by cold water.  He gasped and struggled to hold onto consciousness as the water blasted into him, knocking the chair over, and washed the watermelons away.  Most started to roll and kept going until they were against the walls of the small building.

 

When he managed to uncross his eyes, Napoleon was standing there grinning down at him.  “I think that will do it, fellahs.  UNCLE thanks you for your service.”  He gave Illya a little wave.  “Hey, partner, you look like you could use some rescuing…”

 

Illya’s teeth were chattering and he noticed the thermometer read ninety one degrees.  “We need to get out of here,” he managed to stammer.

 

“That’s the outside temperature, Illya.  I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s much it’s much cooler in here.  The fire department pumps its water from the pond.  It’s a chilly sixty degrees now.”  Napoleon rapidly undid the ropes and got Illya to his feet.  “It won’t stay like that for long though, so let’s get you out of here.”

 

“The head THRUSH here--”

 

“Is cooling her heels in the lock up down in Montpelier.”

 

“How did you…?”  Illya leaned against Napoleon, struggling to stay upright on unhappy limbs, and wiped his face.

 

“It’s amazing what you can get out of a man who thinks he’s about to be made a gentleman.”

 

“What?”

 

Napoleon pulled open the door and pushed Illya through it, then tugged it shut.  “That’s what my mom used to say when we had one of the cats fixed.”

 

“You wouldn’t have.”

 

“Hey, no one threatens my partner without facing severe consequences.”  The fire truck was rumbling away as Napoleon helped Illya into the car.  They had only driven a few yards up the road when it was as if the shed suddenly took a deep rumbling breath.  The walls looked as if they expanded, then deflated, and then fell inward.

 

“As always, your timing…”

 

Napoleon glanced over at his partner and grinned.  “Always perfect and always timely.”

 

 

Epilogue

 

Illya listened to the rain pelt down on the roof and sipped his iced tea.  He’d taken just enough of the pain killers to take the edge off the dull ache in his limbs, but not enough to make him groggy.  He heard a car drive up and hastily set his glass aside.  One hand found the Walther resting beneath a pillow and he aimed it at the doorway leading from the kitchen.

 

The kitchen door opened and closed and a moment later Napoleon appeared, his light tan jacket polka dotted from the rain.  “It’s really coming down out there.”

 

“Were you able to reach Mr. Waverly?”  Illya set the pistol aside.

 

“As we speak, they are performing a raid on the farm growing the watermelons.  We were lucky that these THRUSH were so eager to talk.”

 

“And the chief?” 

 

“She isn’t, but Waverly is confident that she will eventually.”

 

“I’m not as certain.  She seemed fairly committed to the cause.”

 

“He has a way with women.  I do believe he could even charm Angelique.”

 

“That viper?  I doubt it.  I’m assuming Mr. Waverly loved our report?”

 

“Enough to give us the rest of the week off.  We have the cabin until Sunday, so I think it is time for a bit of R&R.”

 

The wind blowing in from the porch was cool and fragrant.  “That works for me.  I can see why your parents would come here.”

 

“Well, we never had the trouble with THRUSH that you and I did, just the occasional squirrel.”  Napoleon settled down in a rocking chair and began to rock slowly.  “Tomorrow we can go out on the pond.  I can show you all my favorite spots.”

 

“Sounds exciting.”

 

“Then perhaps later we can have a discussion about just how you got to be so good at that little performance from this morning.”

 

Illya turned his face to the cool breeze and smiled.  “I think I’m like this sort of camping, just fine.”

 

 

*Actually lifted from the EPA website (http://www.epa.gov/opprd001/factsheets/forchlorfenuron.pdf)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
